


we fight those demons (day in and day out)

by alesford



Series: our family of choice [19]
Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, F/F, Families of Choice, Feels, Heavy Angst, Mild Smut, Nicole Haught Needs A Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 3 Spoilers, Wynaught Brotp, Wynonna Earp Needs a Hug, there is angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 15:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15754338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alesford/pseuds/alesford
Summary: It’s been three weeks since Wynonna turned up at the house with her arms wrapped protectively around Nicole, both of them smelling like cheap whiskey and looking like a rough night personified.  Three weeks since Nicole ran into a hostage situation like a brave idiot, only to watch an entire family cut down in less than a minute. Three weeks of being distant and stubborn and stupid. They need totalk.ORNicole is pretty awful about admitting that she needs help.A follow-up to‘driving away from the wreck of the day’.





	we fight those demons (day in and day out)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LFL21_PotterAndEarpFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFL21_PotterAndEarpFan/gifts).



> I have been working on this one story in this universe for probably over a month now. I’ve known how it starts and ends for a while, but everything else just eluded me. But here we are. At last. 
> 
> This story comes from a prompt that lflorez21_haught gave me forever and a lifetime ago, and so this is for them. The given prompt is:
> 
>  
> 
> _I was thinking maybe a Wayhaught date that somehow turns into a family adventure._
> 
>  
> 
> And, well, shit. I am so sorry that this is absolutely not the happy family story that I’m sure you meant with that prompt. I am so sorry. 
> 
> This is a follow-up to the events of [**‘driving away from the wreck of the day’**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15221663). This will not make sense if you have not read that installation.

 

 

 **we fight those demons (day in and day out)**  

_under the weight of belief_  
_we shiver and shake like a leaf_  
_and death is a force, not a man on a horse_  
_i’ll keep you safe while you sleep_  
_\- ‘demons’ by dry the river_

 

 

-

 

 

It’s been three weeks since Wynonna turned up at the house with her arms wrapped protectively around Nicole, both of them smelling like cheap whiskey and looking like a rough night personified.

 

Waverly had heard the doors of a car slam shut when the clock on her phone read _6:30am_ and slipped into her fuzzy boots and Nicole’s duty jacket that hung from a hook near the front door. She hadn’t slept well in the empty house; it’d been so long since she had been surrounded by such quiet. No pitter patter of small feet. No sleepy laughter in the bed next to her. No, _Good morning, bonus blankets_ , to wake her up.

 

She didn’t expect to see Officer Thayn’s squad car in her driveway. Nor did she expect to see her sister bundling her girlfriend into her arms and ushering her into the house, past where she stood confused and concerned. Because Wynonna had given her the slightest of head shakes. A clear, _Not now_ , in her posture and in her eyes.

 

She put the kettle on when she walked back inside, fighting the instinct to check on the two women upstairs, whose footsteps she could hear creaking across the old floorboards. Something was undoubtedly wrong. She knew and she could feel it in her heart because she had never seen Nicole try to make herself so small. Had never seen her so bowed underneath an invisible weight. So close to breaking. If she hadn’t broken already.

 

The thought had made her eyes tear up.

 

The kettle whistled and she didn’t even realize it until Wynonna stepped up behind her and reached to turn off the burner. She pulled two mugs from the cupboard, prepared them tea without a gripe or grouse. She did it all without a word as Waverly watched with her apprehension mounting.

 

“What happened?” she finally asked once the cups were filled and steaming on the countertop. Her voice was soft and afraid.

 

Because Wynonna had said they were safe. Had texted that it was just going to be a long night. Wynonna hadn’t said _anything_ to suggest she would find them wandering in the next morning bedraggled and looking so _forlorn_.

 

Her sister stilled with her hands pressed against the countertop and her eyes screwed shut.

 

“It was bad, Waves. Like Eurotrash vampire massacre bad.”

 

Waverly’s eyes widened at the description. “Bulshar? But—”

 

Wynonna spun around quickly, shaking her head. “No, no. Not supernatural-related. Just… the scene was bad and Haught… Nicole saw it all. She was _there,_ Waves. In the room. The guy had a semi-automatic shotgun and he just…” She made sound effects and hand gestures that were probably wildly inappropriate.

 

“You’re both okay, though. Alive.”

 

It’s the first thing that matters to Waverly, forever and always.

 

“It wrecked her, Waves. It fucking wrecked her.”

 

And Wynonna had given her the basic details of the incident. Told her the body count. About the interview with ASIRT and Price. The crying and the alcohol.

 

Three weeks and Nicole hadn’t talked about it at all. Not really. Only the clinical details like a cop giving a report to a supervisor.

 

More often than not, Waverly would wake in the middle of the night and find Nicole’s side of the bed empty and cold. She would slide out from under her pile of blankets and tiptoe through the house, searching for her love. Most of the time, she would find Nicole at the kitchen table, poring over old incident reports that included the name ‘Franklin McClain’. It was a small stack and by now, Nicole probably knew them backwards and forwards.

 

Other times, though? Other times, Nicole escaped her nightmares to stand in the doorway of Belle’s bedroom, watching their daughter sleep. She had outgrown the Toy Story theme and moved on to Star Wars, courtesy of Jeremy’s geeky influence. She still kept that pink spray bottle next to her bed, even after more than a few years.

 

Waverly would find her there and draw her into an embrace from behind, resting her cheek against Nicole’s shoulder. They stood there, together, for as long as Nicole needed. Then they’d go back to bed.

 

Rinse. Repeat. At least a couple times a week.

 

Waverly’s heart _hurts._  

 

It’s been three weeks and Nicole needs to talk to somebody. Even if it isn’t her.

 

She calls Wynonna.

 

“You were there,” she says. “With her. When it happened.”

 

Wynonna shakes her head, hands wrapped around her mug of coffee as she leans against the kitchen counter. Today was her turn to take the girls to school, which meant waking up even earlier to make sure Alice was dressed and ready. She had driven back to Waverly’s and Nicole’s house after dropping them off at Purgatory Elementary, and now having seen the heartache in her sister’s eyes, she wishes she had waited until she could get drunk to have whatever conversation this is.

 

Because all she can do is shake her head and say, “I wasn’t there, Waves. I didn’t see what Nicole saw.”

 

“But you saw the bodies and the blood, right?”

 

“Baby girl, what’s this about?”

 

Waverly sighs, sitting at the table. Her fingers thread through her still shower-damp hair and she can’t bring herself to meet Wynonna’s concerned gaze. Instead, she turns her sight out the kitchen window to the clouds rolling in for an overcast morning.

 

She inhales. Exhales. Once and then again.

 

“I’m worried about Nicole,” she whispers and it’s almost too quiet for Wynonna to make out the words.

 

But she can hear the fear loud and clear.

 

“Haught’s a big girl, Waverly. She can—“

 

“She won’t talk to me,” Waverly interrupts. “We always talk to each other, ‘Nonna.”

 

Wynonna snorts into her coffee and receives a glare for it.

 

“She won’t talk to me and I know she’s hurting and I don’t know how to help her.” She drops her head into her hands and murmurs, “I don’t know how to help her, Wynonna.”

 

“Hey, hey,” her older sister coos. The coffee mug clinks as she sets it down a little roughly on the countertop. But then she’s kneeling next to her little sister, her beautiful little sister with such a capacity for love. “What happened that day… it sucked sweaty, hairy balls, but Nicole is strong. She’ll get through this. You both will because annoyingly, you both seem determined to show up the rest of us fuckups when it comes to having a healthy adult relationship.”

 

Waverly gives a watery laugh and when she lifts her head there are tears in her eyes. Wynonna reaches forward to wipe them away with the pads of her thumbs. “I’ll talk to her, okay? Maybe she'll talk to me. She loves you, though, Waverly. Don’t forget that.”

 

“Thanks, Wynonna.”

 

“I love you, too. Both of you, my adorable psychos.”

 

And Waverly nods and pulls Wynonna from the ground and into a hug, leaning into the comfort of her sister.

 

 

-

 

 

Wynonna calls Nicole.

 

Or more like _calls on_ because she shows up at the sheriff’s office at the end of the day with a big, brown paper sack in her arms.

 

Nicole eyes it warily. “No more alcohol in this office. Not for a while. It smelled like whiskey for an entire day.”

 

“No alcohol, Haughtstuff,” Wynonna tells her, giving the bag a rustle to prove she’s not hauling around a bunch of glass bottles of booze. “Just Chinese food with enough MSG to make you regret your life choices.”

 

“No alcohol,” Nicole says skeptically. “Who are you and what have you done with Wynonna?” She raises an eyebrow.

 

Wynonna drops the bag into one of the chairs in front of the desk and pulls out a plastic two-sixer of Jim Beam. “Maybe just a little alcohol?”

 

It isn’t a _little_ alcohol at all.

 

She eyes the bottle and Wynonna eyes her. There are dark circles under her eyes and her shoulders slouch a little more than normal as she leans over the file open in front of her. Exhaustion is written across her body. It seeps deep into her bones until everything hurts.

 

She seems small, Wynonna thinks. Small in a way that she remembers from that night. Bowed to her breaking point and trying to run from it all just the same. Small and distant. As if she believes hiding from it, ignoring it, will make the trauma fade.

 

How has she not noticed how bad it is until now?

 

Some fucking friend she is.

 

(But she has her own nightmares. Of demons and hell and darker days and loss. She has her own memories of blood spattered walls and broken bodies and lives snuffed out too soon.

Still.

Some fucking friend.)

 

“I have to go home to Waverly and Belle tonight,” Nicole says slowly, closing the file in front of her and nudging it aside.

 

“And?” Wynonna prods, giving the bottle a shake. The amber liquid sloshes inside.

 

“And we’re not getting hammered again. Not like that.”

 

 _Not like that night,_ she wants to say. That horrible night after that goddamn awful day. Six lives taken. Gone. Dead. The days after had sucked, too. She had to issue a formal statement out of the Sheriff’s Department. Talk with ASIRT again and then Stewart’s legal representative. More than one citizen of Purgatory wanted to know the gritty details when she tried to go to Shorty’s for a drink. Doc told them off, but Nicole shook her head at him; it was her responsibility to take care of the townsfolk, to take care of Purgatory. They deserved what answers she could provide them.

 

It still sucked.

 

Wynonna shrugs nonchalantly but even Nicole can see through the gesture; it’s performative in the same way that Nicole has been coming to work everyday with a friendly smile and a good morning to her colleagues as she always has done. It’s a guise that says, _Look. I’m fine. Everything’s normal._

 

And, well, nobody really wants to see past the façade.

 

Except, maybe, her family.

 

Because Wynonna looks at her with the same look that Nicole knows she’s giving Wynonna. Something like sympathy and compassion and understanding. They understand each other.

 

So Wynonna nods and places the bottle on the corner of the desk. “No drinking so much that we both get stupidly sappy again. Got it.” She reaches for the takeout containers in the bag instead, along with two sets of cheap chopsticks.

 

“Chop Suey from Jade Dragon?” Nicole asks when she recognizes the misspelled restaurant name on the chopsticks' wrapper.

 

“Jade _Flagon?_   Yeah. Who else would sell me a bottle of booze from behind their counter?”

 

She closes her eyes because that isn’t information that she wants to know right now. She doesn’t want to know that the owner of her favorite crappy Canadian Chinese food joint is still selling liquor without a license. Doesn’t want to know much about anything except whether Wynonna remembered to get her chicken instead of pork.

 

She finds chunks of chicken mixed into the rice and vegetables after she cracks open the container that Wynonna shoved into her hands. A tired smile makes a brief appearance before she begins to dig in with the cheap takeaway chopsticks. Her stomach growls as soon as she swallows her first few bites.

 

Wynonna quirks an eyebrow. “Christ, Haught. Have you had anything to eat today?”

 

Nicole stops shoveling the Chinese takeaway into her mouth, glancing up to see Wynonna staring at her. “I, uh…” She thinks about this morning, running late to get out the door after she’d slept past her alarm due to waking up in the middle of the night because of a bad dream. She had remembered to grab a banana off the counter but had forgotten her lunch in the fridge, and when Waverly texted, offering to bring it to the station, she said she’d get something from the diner.

 

She hadn’t, of course. Not that she intentionally skipped the meal; there’s been an increase in defacement of public property lately, and she’s been trying to work with public works to hire temporary, additional help to scrub away the crude penis illustrations and dick jokes appearing around town. Already, she had received more than one call from angry parents about their children being exposed to such indecency.

 

It isn’t as if she’s the one out there drawing phalluses like a fourteen-year-old boy. No, she’s just an exhausted sheriff of a small town department that’s probably suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder.

 

Nicole coughs and reaches for the mug of cold coffee still on her desk. She ignores the layer of oily film that’s appeared on top of it and chugs half of the bitter liquid until the tickle in her throat subsides. “I was caught up in work,” she finally answers, and Wynonna only responds with a skeptical, _“Uh-huh,”_ before turning back to her own chop suey chef special.

 

She slows down her frantic eating after that, beginning to feel a bit more human with food in her stomach. She’s grateful that Wynonna doesn’t ask anymore questions, doesn’t try to talk to her while they eat, even if she can feel those blue eyes studying her every time Nicole’s eyes drift back to one of the reports on her desk.

 

Lonnie had once again filed an incorrect form for Beverly Loblaw’s missing pug. Like mother, like daughter. Both pearl-clutching, spiteful harpies that managed to grate the sheriff’s nerves as much as they did Wynonna’s.

 

An obnoxious, disgusting belch rumbles from across her desk. “Seriously, Wynonna?” Nicole mutters.

 

“Too much MSG,” she groans. “But it’s bourbon o’clock, so are you done, yet?” She’s already reaching for Nicole’s mostly-empty container, dumping it into the emptied brown paper sack along with her own. Nicole watches as she steps out of the office and drops the bag in the trash bin next to Lonnie’s vacant desk before returning and going straight for the Jim Beam.

 

“Can we at least do this like grown adults instead of drinking straight from the bottle?” Nicole asks, opening one of the bottom drawers of her desk and pulling out two red SOLO cups.

 

“Classy.”

 

“Only the best for an Earp.”

 

Wynonna unscrews the plastic lid and pours a healthy glug into each of the plastic cups.

 

“Here’s to being the most badass motherfu—”

 

“Language,” Nicole hums. They’ve all been doing their best to cut back on the swearing, especially since the kids are _most definitely_ picking it up. Already, Nicole and Waverly had sat Belle down to talk about hurtful words and cursing.

 

Wynonna glares at her but starts over anyways. “Here’s to being the most bamf bitches in Purgatory.”

 

Nicole sighs. It’s only slightly better, but it’ll have to do. She lifts her cup a little higher into the air before taking a healthy sip of its contents.

 

She can’t get blitzed, she reminds herself. She needs to get home. To Waverly. To Belle. She needs to be there for them. Needs to be strong.

 

She watches Wynonna down the contents of her own cup before pouring herself another.

 

“Not that I’m not grateful for the food and the alcohol, Wynonna, but why are you here?” Nicole tilts her head curiously, leaning back in her office chair. She could fall asleep here, in her chair or on the sofa. That way she wouldn’t wake up Waverly again with one of her stupid nightmares.

 

Wynonna scratches the top of her head, combing her fingers through her hair with a heavy sigh. “Waverly called me,” she says simply, and it elicits the frown from Nicole that she expected. “You need to pull your head out of your ass and _talk to her._ ”

 

It's maybe a little like the time that Doc called Waverly and Waverly told Nicole and Nicole showed up at some biker dive bar in the middle of nowhere in  _October_ _._ Except Waverly told Wynonna and now Wynonna is here, pestering her.

 

Nicole clenches her jaw and stares into the white inside of her red cup. “We are talking, Wynonna, and I don’t know why that’s any of your business.” The words come out more like a growl, far harsher than she means them to be and she knows that her defensiveness gives away the very fact that she knows they _haven’t_ been talking — not really.

 

“Cut the crap,” Wynonna snaps. “You hurting? Especially you hurting and not talking to Waverly? It hurts _her_ , Nicole. She called me because she feels like she’s failing you somehow, because you’re too stubborn to pull your head out of your fucking ass and let her help you. God, Nicole, she _loves_ you. And I know you love her because damn it, I held that stupid ring while you had to go inside and play the fucking hero!”

 

Wynonna didn’t plan to lose her temper like this.

 

But Nicole isn’t the only one who was affected that day.

 

She doesn't get to monopolize the grief from the trauma from that day.

 

(Because that day, her best friend pressed an engagement ring into her palm; the one she was planning on giving to her sister later that night. The same day that she watched her idiotic best friend run into a goddamn hostage situation, only to fear the worst when she heard those shots go off. The one where she watched her best friend, her potential future _sister-in-law,_ crumble under the weight of a cursed little town on her shoulders.

That same stupid, stupid, shitty day three weeks ago.)

 

She expects for Nicole to shout back. To scream something about it being her job. That she’s sheriff and she’s supposed to do those sorts of things. What Wynonna doesn’t expect is for Nicole to deflate in front of her, to shrink under the brief diatribe.

 

“I know,” is what Nicole says, so small and so quiet.

 

The anger and frustration drains from Wynonna faster than she could shotgun a beer in high school.

 

“I know I need to talk to her,” she mumbles. She throws back the rest of her bourbon but she doesn’t reach for the bottle and she doesn’t ask for more. Her shoulders slump and she sighs, running a hand over her face. “Could you… could you and Doc watch Belle this weekend? I think… I think maybe Waves and I should get away for a couple days so we can talk.”

 

“Of course,” Wynonna responds almost immediately. “Yeah, whatever you need. Just… fix it, okay? I know neither of us likes it when Waverly’s in pain.”

 

Nicole huffs a laugh. “Yeah… I know I fucked up.”

 

“Language.”

 

It’s enough to draw a real laugh from the redhead, even if it’s the saddest sort of laugh that Wynonna has ever heard.

 

“I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it,” she murmurs, and to Wynonna’s ears, it sounds like a promise and a rallying cry.

 

 

-

 

 

Nicole comes up with more plans than necessary, including contingency plans, and she texts each and every one of them to Wynonna for her opinion. After Plan D, Nicole receives a text that reads, _“who r u? my sister? jfc haught just take her out to dinner and talk to her.”_ It’s followed up with a string of  emojis.

 

Dinner and a night in the big city has been her Plan A from the beginning, so Wynonna probably has a point. It helps, of course, that she already has written down a short list of nice restaurants that have vegetarian-friendly options, plus which hotels are closest.

 

This needs to be their night away from Purgatory with the space to be together and to talk. God, Nicole just needs to open her mouth and _talk_ and stop being such an idiot about it all.

 

It’s easier said than done. The talking part.

 

She still hears the shotgun, feels the warm spray of blood, sees the splatter across the headboard and everywhere else. Except when she closes her eyes to try to rid the image from her mind, she sees Waverly and Belle and sometimes Wynonna and Alice, too.

 

She doesn’t know how to tell Waverly that she’s never been more afraid of loss in her life. Not even when she found that old pickup truck overturned and empty with drag marks left in red snow. Doesn’t know how to tell her that she’s terrified that one day she’ll be unable to protect them, her and Belle.

 

It should be ironic, shouldn’t it? That the thing that scares her most is so mortal and so _human,_ even after everything that she’s seen in this world from demons to witches to everything else that goes bump in the night with claw and fang and evil in its veins.

 

It’s ironic, but it only feels like a rock in the pit of her stomach, dragging her down, down, down and away from everything she holds dear.

 

She needs to _talk_ and she needs to stop pretending that she’s okay when she isn’t. Didn’t she learn her lesson about honest communication after she kept those DNA results from Waverly?

 

Ugh.

 

Nicole reaches for her mobile phone and dials the number of the first restaurant on her list. She figures at least one of the five will have a reservation opening for Saturday night, even if she’s asking last minute. She doesn’t really expect it to be the first one, though. But the person on the other end of the line is friendly and chipper and tells her that Nicole’s in luck because they have one table for two available at half past seven, and what name can she put down for the reservation?

 

“Haught,” she tells the woman.

 

“As in H-O-T?”

 

“H-A-U-G-H-T,” she corrects. It isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last that she has to spell it for somebody else.

 

Nicole can hear the keyboard clacking in the background. “All right, Ms. Haught. We look forward to seeing you tomorrow night. Have a lovely rest of your day.”

 

She mumbles a quick thanks and ends the call, dropping her phone onto her desk and leaning back into her chair. A groan escapes her lips as she covers her face with her hands.

 

There’s a knock on her office door, and she really doesn’t want to be bothered at this moment. “Whatever it is, Lonnie,” she calls out, voice muffled through her palms. “Go ask Price instead.”

 

The door opens anyways, a slight squeak to the hinges that she needs to take care of with a can of WD-40. It isn’t Lonnie, of course.

 

Waverly pokes her head through the door, a quiet sort of smile on her face. “Hey, it’s almost three-thirty.”

 

Nicole’s face falls when she glances at her watch and sees that it’s ten ‘til. “Shit. Sorry, Waves. I got caught up in a case,” she lies.

 

(Fucking _lies_.)

 

“Can you… go ahead without me? And tell Belle that I’m sorry?”

 

Because Friday afternoons are when Waverly and Nicole knock off from work early or for at least an hour to pick up their daughter from school. Friday afternoons are when they go for ice cream and walk through the park or visit the library. Together. As a family.

 

And Waverly frowns because Nicole doesn’t lose track of time. Not on Fridays. Nicole doesn’t renege on their family traditions.

 

“Everything okay, Nicole?” she asks, and Nicole can see the deeper question in her eyes. The deeper concern that begs Nicole to just _talk_ to her and to stop trying to be a martyr for once. Wynonna had once called her a _‘stupid, valiant twat’_ while ranting to Waverly about her girlfriend’s willingness towards self-sacrifice.

 

 _‘We’ll talk Saturday,’_ Nicole tells herself. She swears it in that moment. She should promise it aloud for Waverly to hear, but instead she says, “Can I take you out to dinner tomorrow night? In the city? Wynonna already said that she and Doc can watch Belle.”

 

Waverly’s brow furrows. It’s been a while since the two of them have had a date night in the city, and she wants to say _yes_ immediately but then another part of her wants to ask again if everything’s okay. Because Nicole has been distant and Nicole isn’t sleeping. Because every time that Waverly looks at her, she thinks her rock — her beautiful, steadfast rock — is about to shatter into a million pieces, and she doesn’t know what _to do._

 

“What’s the occasion?” she asks with a smile rather than poking at the giant elephant in the room.

 

“Celebrating getting to see your smiling face everyday.” It’s the right amount of cheesy that masks the tension in her shoulders as she pushes away from her desk and moves to stand. “I think my case can wait. Do you mind driving, though? I need to answer a few e-mails.” She sets her computer to hibernate and makes sure to pocket her phone; she’ll make hotel reservations on the drive over to the elementary school.

 

“Yeah, of course. Are you sure you can get away for a little bit?”

 

Nicole flashes her a dimpled grin as she circles the desk and steps closer towards Waverly, who allows the office door to swing open a little bit more to step inside and close the door behind her. “I figure being sheriff has some perks, like taking the afternoon to spend time with my family.”

 

And there’s the Nicole that Waverly knows. The one that’s been buried so deep beneath grief and guilt these last three weeks. She drops her hands to her girlfriend’s waist and stands on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to her lips. It’s like greeting a lover you haven’t seen in some time, like coming home after a long trip away. Nicole tugs her in for another kiss before Waverly can step backwards, and both of them smile into it.

 

They’re going to be okay.

 

They’re going to talk tomorrow night and they’re going to be okay.

 

“C’mon, Haught,” Waverly whispers against her lips. “We’re going to be late.”

 

 

-

 

 

They plan to leave the house around five, just in case there’s traffic driving into Calgary and so they have enough time to check into the hotel and drop their bags off in the room. Of course, Nicole is dressed by three, despite the fact that she spent most of the morning panicking about what to wear.

 

(Dressy attire… when was the last time she had to wear _dressy attire?_ )

 

She opts for royal blue slacks and a matching blue blazer over a simple white blouse along with her dressier, brown Wolverine 1000 Miles boots. Waverly takes one look and informs Nicole that she is to take Belle over to the homestead and not return until it’s time to leave for Calgary.

 

She obliges, mostly because it means she can spend time with Wynonna and Doc while trying not to practice in her head what she wants to say to Waverly.

 

(She doesn’t have a clue what she wants to say; that’s part of the problem.)

 

Belle has no qualms with this plan either, swinging her Porg backpack over her shoulders as she follows her mom to her truck and hoists herself into the cab. As they pull out of the driveway and turn towards the edge of town, she bounces in her seat excitedly. “Oh! Alice said they made cookies last night! She said that Doc promised we can make more tonight because it’s a _'w_ _holesome activity'_ and he really likes snickerdoodles even if Jolene was a murderous bitch.”

 

The phrase makes Nicole do a double-take, especially paired with that name because it’s something they — collectively _they —_ haven’t talked about in years. Not since around the time that two-faced, demonic Martha Stewart showed up and Bulshar’s tree swallowed her whole.

 

The little girl’s eyes widen because she realizes what she just repeated and she knows she isn’t supposed to swear. Even if she hears bad words all the time because _Earps._ They’ve had many a conversation about understanding the meaning and power of words before _flinging them about all willy-nilly._

 

“It’s okay, Belle,” Nicole reassures her. “Jolene was definitely pretty awful. _And_ her lemon scones weren’t even that good.”

 

“Mama told me about her,” Belle says softly. “Jolene. Back when I first moved in with you guys.”

 

Nicole hums, “Did she, now?”

 

She remembers Waverly telling her about Belle’s struggle with accepting love, with believing she is worthy of it. Her girlfriend had crawled into bed that evening with tears in her eyes and Nicole spent the night reminding _her_ that she is also worthy of love and family and _happiness._ That she brings such light and life to the world, to them, to their life together.

 

Of course it was because Waverly had dredged up those devastating memories in order to try to comfort the little girl in their care. Of course Waverly, with her massive and giving heart, would choose to unearth one of the most difficult things they’ve ever faced in order to empathize with Belle.

 

And here Nicole is — running away from opening up at all.

 

(She isn’t, though. Tonight.

Tonight.

They’re going to _talk._ )

 

“She said that everybody has a Jolene,” Belle tells her. “All of us have monsters under our beds and in our closets. She said the worst ones are in our hearts and in our heads. They tell us that we’re not good enough and that we don’t deserve things like love and security and family. I didn’t… it took a while, mom. For me to believe that you guys really wanted me and that maybe I could have a family like Alice.”

 

“I knew the moment that I carried you out of that house that I wanted to give you a home, Belle. A family. Waverly knew, too, as soon as she met you.”

 

In the rearview mirror, Nicole can see Belle nod. “I know, mom. Sometimes, though…”

 

“Jolene’s don’t ever go away completely.” She says it with sympathy, with understanding in her voice. “We do our best, though, monkey. We’re never truly alone when we fight our demons.”

 

“That’s what mama said.”

 

Nicole smiles. “Your mama’s a smart woman.”

 

A comfortable sort of quiet fills the cab and it’s only when they’ve rolled up the gravel driveway of the homestead that Belle speaks up again.

 

“Are you gonna propose to mama tonight?”

 

“What makes you ask that, monkey?”

 

“It’s just— you asked in April if i was okay with you asking mama to marry you.”

 

Nicole throws the truck into park and lifts her hand to rub at the back of her neck. She unbuckles her seatbelt so she can twist in her seat to look at her daughter. Belle sits with her backpack in her lap, fingers fidgeting with one of the straps.

 

“I love your mama, Belle, and I would be so happy to marry her. Some things have happened, though—”

 

“The McClain case.”

 

And Belle knows because Belle is clever and an older soul that’s already seen enough violence to recognize the haunting pain in another person. Because Belle knows loss. Because Belle knows the sound of buckshot meeting human flesh and bone.

 

“Yeah, monkey. The McClain case.” Nicole sighs and threads her fingers through her hair. It’s getting shaggy in a way that means it’s probably time for a haircut. “We all have our own Jolene.”

 

And Belle understands because Belle is smart and observant and wise beyond her years. Belle understands and she smiles sadly in a way that a nine-year-old never should when she reaches forward and rests a small hand on her mom’s shoulder. “We’re never alone when we fight our demons.”

 

Nicole is sure to draw her daughter into a tight hug before they walk into the house, and instead of running straight to Alice’s bedroom, Belle stays by her side once they step across the threshold. “Go on, monkey,” she murmurs, giving her a little nudge until she casts one last glance at her mother before taking the steps two at a time.

 

She meanders into the kitchen where she finds Doc sitting and Wynonna leaning with her back against the counter.

 

“Finally pulling your head out of your ass, Haught?” Wynonna heckles around her coffee mug that is definitely more whiskey than coffee this late into the afternoon.

 

Nicole shoves her hands into the pockets of her trousers, sighing because she knows that Wynonna is right in her jibing. Just like she was right that night she showed up at the station with cheap Chinese food and a bottle of Jim Beam.

 

“Yes, Wynonna,” she starts dryly. “Consider this the start of head extraction from ass. Do you have any additional advice since you’re so well acquainted with asshole territory?”

 

Doc grunts from his seat at the kitchen table, choking on the snickerdoodle he shoved into his mouth seconds earlier.

 

Both Nicole and Wynonna shoot him a look.

 

“Not that kind of asshole, asshole,” Wynonna razzes, causing him to sputter even more while his cheeks flush red.

 

He coughs down the rest of the cookie and pushes away from the table. “Excuse me. I think I hear the girls calling for me.” His exit from the kitchen is swift and they hear the front door open and and close, no doubt sounding his departure for a quick cigarillo on the porch.

 

“You’d think he was a century-old prude who never spent time in brothels or something,” Wynonna mumbles.

 

Nicole chuckles, shaking her head because some things never change. “How he puts up with you twenty-four seven amazes me.”

 

Wynonna shrugs. “I grow on people.”

 

“Like a fungus.”

 

“Gotta get ‘shrooms somewhere.”

 

This she can do. The back and forth banter with Wynonna. It feels right and almost normal and even if it doesn’t entirely calm the butterflies in her stomach, she knows she’ll go home a little more settled and a little more confident.

 

Even if she still doesn’t know what she’s going to say.

 

And for the next hour or so, Wynonna mocks her and Doc returns to distract her with stories of the previous night’s bake-off. The girls run around playing some sort of make-believe game that entails lots of screams of joy and laughter. It keeps her mind occupied until it’s time to drive back to pick up Waverly.

 

“Monkey!” she shouts after checking the time on her watch. Footsteps thunder down the stairs with both girls skidding to a stop in the kitchen. “I’m headed out, okay? Your mama and I are just a call away if you need anything.”

 

Belle shuffles forward and wraps her arms around her mother’s torso. “Just remember to let her help you fight, mom,” she mumbles at a volume that only Nicole can here. “You aren’t alone either.”

 

Nicole can’t cry. Not here and now before she has even talked to Waverly.

 

But damn it. Her daughter is the coolest kid.

 

(Her niece is a close second.)

 

“I love you, Belle,” she says softly, pressing a kiss to the top of Belle’s head. “I love you so much.”

 

“I love you, too, mom.”

 

Nicole drives back to the homestead with her eighties playlist blasting, and it helps her regain somewhat of a brighter mood. When doesn’t singing _Africa_ along with Toto lift a person’s spirits?

 

She kills the engine in the driveway, twirling her keyring around her finger as she drifts up the walkway to the house. To the home she’s built with Waverly and Belle. A home filled with love and security and family.

 

She isn’t alone.

 

(She isn’t alone.)

 

“Waves?” she calls out, stopping at the bottom of the  stairs. Their bags are already by the front door, and she moves to go ahead and put them in the truck when she hears a soft, _‘Hey,’_ behind her.

 

She turns to watch Waverly descend the stairs, and it isn’t the first time and she hopes it won’t be the last that the air rushes from her lungs because Waverly is _stunning._ “You are… breathtaking." Nicole breathes.

 

She remembers that first time at the Wainwright. Waverly was wearing that gorgeous, aqua green mermaid dress and Nicole’s heart skipped a beat at that smile that was just for her. And even though that night went straight to hell because of Bobo and _Willa,_ that night changed so much for the both of them.

 

(After Mictian, Waverly had told her what she’d said to Wynonna that night in the sheriff’s department. What she said to make Wynonna give Peacemaker to their crazy, backstabbing sister.

 

_“I love her.”_

 

Nicole had known before that. How much of a goner she was for Waverly Earp. How quickly and how far she had already fallen.

 

_“Waverly Earp smiling at me from her front porch.”_

 

Waverly has always been a vision in Nicole’s eyes. She’s always been the most beautiful thing that she’s ever known. The woman she’s loved the most in her entire life.)

 

Her heart stammers in her chest this time, too, because the woman she loves is looking at her like she hung the moon. Nicole is pretty sure she’s looking at Waverly just the same. And in this moment, she isn’t really sure why they thought getting dressed for dinner at the homestead before an hour drive into the city seemed like a good idea, especially since they could have dressed at the hotel instead. Because Nicole’s mouth is dry and her eyes can’t bear to leave Waverly’s and wow, is she gay. So, so gay.

 

Because Waverly is in a forest green dress with a halter neck that hugs her form and falls just above her knees, and she’s wearing golden heeled sandals that give her at least an extra inch in height. Because her hair is loose and wavy, and if _cascading, luscious locks_ is a phrase ever to be used, now would be the time.

 

“Wow. Breathtaking,” she says again once Waverly stands on the ground floor in front of her.

 

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” Waverly’s hands come to rest over the lapels of her jacket. “I am going to kiss you, and then we’re going to stop kissing so we can actually make it to Calgary, okay?”

 

Nicole chuckles and it feels good. It feels good when she nods and Waverly’s lips find hers, tasting of vanilla lip gloss. It feels like maybe this night won’t be as difficult as she thought.

 

So she grabs their overnight bags by the door and smiles when Waverly falls in step with her, locking the door behind them after a quick farewell to Calamity Jane. And Waverly takes her hand and interlaces their fingers and they listen to R.E.O. Speedwagon and 38 Special and Journey all the way to the big city.

 

Waverly never lets go.

 

-

 

 

The hotel is extravagant.

 

“It’s just for one night,” Nicole says as Waverly tucks into her side, a bellhop carrying their bags as the valet takes the truck to the indoor parking garage. “I’m happy to splurge every now and then.”

 

“Sometimes I think you’re too good to me, Nicole Haught,” Waverly murmurs at check-in. Nicole holds her close, relishing this feeling of intimacy that she’s been avoiding for the last three weeks.

 

“Nothing’s ever too good for you, baby.”

 

And they have enough time to freshen up in their room — “Freshen up only,” Nicole says pointedly when Waverly runs her hands over Nicole’s jacket during the elevator ride up to their floor.

 

“Fine. But I get another kiss before dinner.”

 

And dinner?

 

The restaurant is just around the corner from the hotel and dinner is delicious and filling and the bottle of wine shared between them has Nicole’s cheeks warm and tinted with a soft blush. They finish the last of the wine and they order dessert and finally, _finally,_ she thinks she can be brave now. She thinks she knows what she should say to Waverly. How to apologize. How to explain.

 

So she starts with that once their server slips away to put in their order for a slice of chocolate torte to share.

 

Nicole rests a hand on the table, her thumb fidgeting with the ring on her middle finger that matches Waverly’s. The ones they bought off Etsy over a decade ago. A promise of a promise.

 

“Waverly,” she begins. “I know I’ve been a little… distant since that call three weeks ago, and I just need to apologize for that. For not talking to you because I know we made a promise to be honest with each other and to communicate better. Baby, we’ve been so, so good at that for the last ten years. And I just… I didn’t know how to talk to you about this.”

 

“Nicole…” Waverly reaches for her, resting her hand over Nicole’s on top of the table.

 

“I still don’t know how to talk to you about this, but I want to. I don’t want you to hurt because of me.”

 

Waverly’s heart _breaks_ when she hears these words aloud, and then it breaks a little more because Nicole continues on before she can say anything in response.

 

“And I’m sorry that I’ve hurt you these last few weeks. I know I’ve been distant, Waves, and I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry because I shouldn’t have pushed you away because I can’t manage my own grief. I just—”

 

“— Nicole, stop. The only reason that I’ve hurt at all is because I can’t stand to see _you_ hurting and not knowing how to help. I love you, Nicole. Just tell me what I can do, okay? Talk to me.”

 

Nicole is trying. _She is._

 

“I close my eyes, Waves, and I see you and Belle on that bed instead of the McClains and their grandkids. I see you and Belle and he has a shotgun pointed at you and I can’t stop him. I can’t talk him down and he…”

 

Nicole’s voice cracks.

 

“I’m so afraid to lose you, Waverly. You and Belle. I’ve never been so afraid of something in my entire life. I am so afraid, Waverly. I’m so afraid that I’ll lose you or that somebody will take you away from me and I don’t know what I would do. And I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop seeing it and I just… I feel so broken, Waves.”

 

Waverly’s heart is in tatters and she holds tighter to Nicole’s hand in top of the table because she’s afraid, too. She’s afraid of losing Nicole, of having somebody take away the love of her life and the mom of their _mom_ and  _mama_ to their child. She’s afraid, too, and she looks at Nicole and tries to make the words come out as something other than a stuttered, garbled mess.

 

_“I love you. I’m not going anywhere. Belle and I aren’t going anywhere. Where you go, I go, right?”_

 

Nicole can’t stop the tears prickling the corners of her eyes. She can’t stop the way her vision is clouding because she’s trying to hold them back. She can’t stop the pain in her chest that blooms because the pain in Waverly’s eyes mirrors her own and she did that.

 

 _She_ did that. Put pain in Waverly's eyes. Because she’s scared and too weak to move past this _trauma_ on her own. Because it isn’t as if she hasn’t experienced worse or seen worse. She remembers what she felt when she found Belle hiding beneath that kitchen sink after Janey Fuller shot her husband and then overdosed with alcohol and oxy. She can recall that scene with near perfect clarity but it doesn’t… it doesn’t cling to her like the McClain case. The Fuller case snuck under her skin in a different way. 

 

(It burrowed into her heart in the form of a green-eyed little girl with a gifted mind and sharp wit and a love for books and art.)

  
 

She’s been hurting Waverly by not talking and now she’s hurt Waverly because she talked.

 

And damn it, Wynonna, this isn’t easy at all.

 

Nicole excuses herself from their table and makes her way towards the washroom, seemingly cool as a cucumber and all the while hiding her face from the other restaurant patrons.

 

Waverly catches their server’s attention, asks for the bill, and requests that he treat another couple with the dessert they ordered because they aren’t able to stay and enjoy it. When all is said and done, Nicole still hasn’t returned. Waverly finds her in the hallway near the bathrooms, hovering near the doors to the kitchen with her eyes closed and her chin dropped to her chest.

 

“Hey.”

 

Those beautiful, honey brown eyes snap open and there’s still so much pain and _shame_ in them that Waverly immediately steps forward and draws Nicole into a tight embrace.

 

She feels more than hears Nicole’s own, “Hi.” It’s a soft rumble of her chest, churned by a sigh or a cry or maybe both. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles into Waverly’s hair.

 

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Nicole. Let’s just go back to the hotel, okay?” And Waverly’s still clinging to her, as if she’s afraid that Nicole will crawl so deep back into her mind that she’ll disappear entirely into a void of anguish and guilt. She can’t let that happen. She _won’t_ let it happen.

 

“I still need to pay the bill. They probably think we’ve dined and dashed.”

 

“Already paid it.”

 

Nicole nods and slowly, slowly Waverly peels herself away. “I’m sor—”

 

“Don’t finish that sentence, Nicole Haught,” Waverly says and her voice is stern but gentle and it’s a different kind of, _I love you._ “I told you that you’ve nothing to be sorry for tonight.”

 

Nicole nods again. “Okay,” she murmurs.

 

“Okay.”

 

Waverly slides her hand into Nicole’s and she leads the way. Leads them back through the restaurant where Nicole ducks her head again and avoids looking at the other diners or any of the waitstaff, still offering a polite, “Thanks,” on their way out the door. And Waverly leads them back to the hotel and into the elevator and down the hall to their corner suite.

 

It’s Nicole who unlocks the door and pushes it open. It’s Nicole who guides her into the room.

 

Because Nicole needs to know that Waverly is there. Needs to be sure with her hands and her mouth and her entire being. She needs Waverly to know that she is here. Needs her to know with her hands and her mouth and her entire being. She needs Waverly to feel her apology, to know her love from the tips of her toes to the top of her crown.

 

She needs Waverly.

 

And Waverly seems to know this.

 

(She needs Nicole, too.)

 

It feels like zero to sixty and the span of a minute. It’s a mess of tugging and nudging and tongues and hands as soon as they’re behind the closed door of their hotel room.  It’s want and need and a desperate sort of intimacy that writes apologies on bodies and sings sorries from the soul.

 

Nicole splays her fingers across the bare skin of Waverly’s back, holding her close as she feels nimble hands pull at her belt buckle. The metal clinks and she feels and hears the _thwip_ as Waverly tugs it through the belt loops before dropping it to the floor. Waverly starts them toward the king-sized bed but it’s Nicole that turns them. Nicole that lifts Waverly into her arms like that very first time and lowers her to the bed.

 

It isn’t soft and tender sex, not like you might expect two lovers to have after feeling like they’ve been turned inside out with souls laid bare. It’s needy and not quite rough, but Nicole knows she’s going to wake up with more than one hickey with the way that Waverly nips at her skin. She knows she wants to leave Waverly’s lips bruised and swollen in the best of ways and she can’t help the moan that’s teased from somewhere deep inside of her when she feels Waverly’s tongue slide against hers in the same moment that fingertips brush over her nipples.

 

Nicole needs this, but she didn’t realize how much she needs _this._

 

Waverly beneath her, writhing and sighing in pleasure. Short, quick breaths. Chest rising and falling as Nicole brings her to the edge and keeps her there. Over and over and over again until she finally comes with Nicole’s tongue pressed flat against her, drawing against her clit as she falls, falls, falls.

 

Then Waverly draws her back up, tasting herself on Nicole’s lips as her fingers leave a trail of gooseflesh with featherlight touches that leave Nicole wanting for more, more, more. Her teeth scrape against her collarbone, touches becoming firmer and more directed as she moves her hand between Nicole’s thighs, feeling wet, wet, warmth. And she pulls one moan and then another until Nicole tightens around her fingers and orgasms once and then again when Waverly curls her fingers at just the right angle and Nicole _keens._

 

And both their bodies are loose and exhausted and sated. Their minds finally quiet and it isn’t as if everything is okay. But Waverly knows and Waverly is here and Nicole is not alone in fighting her own demons. They’re in this together.

 

Where you go, I go.

 

They lie in bed, side by side, warm from catharsis through confession and sex. They’re tired and content and maybe even close to something like happy in this moment because they’re in love and they’re family and they’re together; what more could any woman ask for?

 

“Marry me?” Waverly breathes and Nicole freezes.

 

“Waves…”

 

“Marry me, Nicole Haught.”

 

Nicole’s laugh is abrupt and more an exhalation of the air in her lungs than a proper chuckle. Her own self-deprecation screams loudly between her ears and she shakes her head.

 

She feels Waverly pull away. “You… you don’t—”

 

And Nicole recognizes her error. She’s quick to reach for Waverly, to draw her close again. “No, no. I… Waverly Earp, marrying you would make me the happiest woman on the planet.”

 

Waverly’s brow furrows. “But why…?” she asks, and it’s shy and unsure and Nicole hates herself for being the cause of that uncertainty.

 

She kisses Waverly’s forehead. “I was going to propose to you that night. Or, I guess, early the next morning. I was going to borrow Wynonna’s new truck with the bigger bed and take you out to the edge of the homestead to look at the stars. To watch the Eta Aquarids before dawn. I wanted to wish on them like shooting stars and ask you to marry me because I meant it, what I said all those years ago. That I’d like to be by your side as long as you will have.”

 

“You were going to propose?” Waverly whispers. “That night?”

 

Nicole nods.

 

“Why didn’t you… why haven’t you asked me, then?” she asks, and Nicole can still see the confusion and hesitation in her eyes.”

 

“I needed to try to be better. For you and for Belle. I haven’t been good, Waves. The McClain case — I can’t stop seeing it when I close my eyes, and you deserve somebody who doesn’t feel so broken. Somebody who is whole. I wanted to put myself back together before I asked. You deserve everything.”

 

Waverly sits up in bed abruptly, the top sheet pooling around her hips. Nicole sits up just enough to lean back on her forearms, staring up at her girlfriend — fiancée? — with a puzzled look on her face.

 

“Nicole Haught, you listen to me,” she starts sternly. “You are whole and you are beautiful and you are everything that I want _and_ deserve. You and Belle and our weird extended family that includes my sister and her stupid, unfortunate timing.”

 

Nicole groans and allows her back to hit the mattress again. “Such a cockblock,” she groans.

 

Waverly can’t help but giggle before adding, “Clam jam.”

 

Nicole snorts, starting to recall all of the absurd phrases that Wynonna has used to describe her _“impeccable timing”_.

 

“Muffin muzzle,” she says with a laugh and Waverly grins widely.

 

“Beaver dam.”

 

“Clitorference.”

 

The laughter that overtakes them is cathartic. More cathartic than the release of the night’s earlier orgasms and definitely more cathartic than getting piss drunk and crying.

 

Sweet, weight-lifting release.

 

Waverly lies back down, snuggling against Nicole with her head tucked into the crook of her neck. Right hand finds left hand and fingers lace as their limbs intertwine. Nicole isn’t sure where she ends and Waverly begins anymore. She hasn’t been sure of that in a long, long time, and she isn’t sure that she cares to know at all.

 

Because this? This feels right.

 

“I’m serious about getting married,” Waverly whispers after a minute of silence save for the soft beating of their hearts and the quiet breaths drawn in the night. “You’re not too broken to be loved, Nicole. You’re worthy of love and security and family. You deserve happiness.” She turns her head just slightly and brushes her lips against soft flesh. “You are so worthy.”

 

“You are, too, Waverly Earp. So worthy of love and everything in the world. I’d be a fool not to want to marry you.”

 

“So that’s a yes?”

 

“That’s a yes.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to the song [**here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CMWZUxwNmSY).


End file.
